


with words unspoken, a silent devotion

by tellmeagain



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 02:26:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29519445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tellmeagain/pseuds/tellmeagain
Summary: Santana ends up committing to UC Berkeley, Quinn across the bay at Stanford—because even the colleges they choose have to be longstanding rivals. It only makes sense, really.
Relationships: Quinn Fabray/Santana Lopez
Comments: 35
Kudos: 84





	1. secrets i have held in my heart are harder to hide than i thought

**Author's Note:**

> I...have nothing to preface this with. Just that these two characters apparently still have me in a chokehold LOL.
> 
> Canon-ish until season 4, obviously no Yale and Louisville. Amicable Brittana break-up sometime early season 3.
> 
> Fic title from Angels by the xx  
> Chapter title from I Wanna Be Yours by Arctic Monkeys
> 
> Enjoy! :)

Santana ends up committing to UC Berkeley, and when her plane touches down in Oakland, she finally feels like she doesn’t have to hold her entire life together with a single thread of yarn.

Because she feels better—feels _more_ —than the person everyone in Lima thought she could ever be. More than the stripper poles Rachel said she was destined for, more than the coward Finn claimed she was in a packed hallway, more than the unambitious teenage girl Mr. Schue spent all of senior year pitying. 

For better or worse, everything and everyone she carried with her for the past four years is long behind her, small speckles in the rearview mirror that’ll cause her to crash and burn if she looks back for too long.

Well. Almost everyone, anyway.

Quinn’s across the bay at Stanford, because _of course_ even the colleges she and Santana choose have to be long standing rivals. It only makes sense, really.

They don’t have any plans to meet up and visit each other; not even courteous texts when they’re both settled into their dorms. Santana doesn’t think twice about it, because it’s not like they ever did that when they lived in the same town, and just because they ended high school on good terms doesn’t mean they’re about to start now.

So, she throws herself into school—mostly general education requirements and a few lower division marketing classes—and actually tries to get along with her roommate, Kendall. She’s a laid back, free spirit from Napa with pink-streaked hair who’s majoring in political science and smokes weed like it’s her job. 

A month into the semester, Santana can say she genuinely likes the girl. They go out to parties with other people on their floor, take turns streaming movies from their laptops, and whenever Santana’s up for it, Kendall will let her take hits from her bong if Santana provides the snacks they’ll inevitably need later. Kendall has a good dealer and Santana has the premium meal plan, so it works. 

She and Brittany text sporadically; harmless, trivial anecdotes about their day-to-days, and when they ask each other about bigger things, like if they’re both happy, Santana knows each of them mean it when they say yes. The thought makes it sting less when she thinks about the fact she’s building a future more than 2,000 miles away from the person she once thought _was_ her future. 

*

She has to blink twice before she’s sure, but she spots Quinn at some random frat party the weekend before Halloween, dressed in a scantily-clad schoolgirl outfit. The sight makes her smirk and roll her eyes all at once, because maybe, sometimes, she misses home more than she realizes. 

She breaks away from Kendall and the group of girls they came with, because she’s drunk and kind of high and doesn’t really see the need to tiptoe around the situation, and she taps Quinn twice on the shoulder. “You know this is a costume party, right?” 

There’s a slight pinch in Quinn’s eyebrows before she turns around, and when she lays eyes on her old friend, a grin breaks out onto her face. “Hi, Santana,” she greets in a relaxed laugh before pulling her into a hug. 

Santana lets herself sink into it, because it’s the first time since her parents dropped her off at her dorm that anyone’s hugged her with a purpose. She keeps that to herself, though. No need for nostalgic reunion speeches right next to a sticky beer die table. “What are you doing here? I didn’t think Stanford snobs ever left the confines of Palo Alto.”

Quinn takes the jest in stride; it’s the first time they’ve seen each other in awhile, and they both know that nothing they say holds actual venom for once. “We don’t,” she relents as Santana hands her another cup of what she assumes is Svedka and Sprite. “But some friends and I drove up for a concert earlier, and my roommate’s sister is a junior, so she’s letting us crash at her place.”

“Mmm. Well, it’s good to see you, Q Fab. And I won’t repeat that, like, ever. So, don’t even try.”

Quinn just smiles at her, shaking her head a little. There’s an easy air about her that breezes across her every move, and Santana wonders if it’s the alcohol that’s loosened her up or if this is really what college, West Coast Quinn Fabray is like. “It’s good to see you too, San.”

Kendall stumbles over shortly after to refill her drink, which leads to Quinn and Santana introducing each other to their respective friend groups. 

“So you guys were close in high school?” one of Quinn’s friends asks, and the two girls exchange looks before offering identical shrugs.

It’s Quinn who answers for them. “You could say that.”

*

“Oh _c’mon,_ blondie, I’ve been in the apartment complex your friend’s sister lives in, and you’ll all be lined up on the living room floor like sardines. Just stay with me.” 

Some way, somehow, they end up crammed in a bathroom together, Quinn wetting squares of paper towels in the sink to help wipe residue beer off of Santana’s arms. “Because your twin bed is that much spacier?”

“Precisely.” Santana extends an arm as Quinn crooks her over with a finger. “I mean, at least there’s some cushioning, I know your back can get…” she trails off quietly into an ellipsis, clearing her throat when her eyes scan over one of the faint scars along the side of Quinn’s wrist.

“You know, I always found it endearing when you accidentally show that you care,” Quinn just teases airily, and Santana’s grateful that’s all she says; even if it may be a light dig at her. She’s met with laughter when she reaches up to smack Quinn’s arm. “But, ok. I’ll stay with you. Thanks, Santana.” It’s silent as Quinn wrings out another paper towel, and an aluminum can crunches underneath one of her wedges. “Jesus, is Busch Lite all that you Cal kids drink?” 

“Alright, on second thought, maybe you’re better off sleeping outside.”

*

1am rolls around, and Quinn’s friends tell her that they’ll pick her up tomorrow morning, so she walks back to the dorms with Santana and Kendall. Quinn and Kendall spend the entire walk discussing Kendall’s pink highlights, and Santana spends the entire walk refraining from making any unnecessary comments about senior year. She’s perfectly exhausted and Quinn seems happy, so no need to disturb the peace. 

“Pretty spacious,” Quinn admires once the three of them make their way inside the double, and Kendall makes a show with her arms as if presenting the space before she drops herself onto her unmade bed.

“Beauty of a corner room.”

When Santana gets back from the bathroom, Kendall is wiping her make-up off at her desk and Quinn is silently admiring the printed photos that decorate the corkboard next to Santana’s bed. She points to a picture of the two of them taken in Times Square during their New York trip junior year, and shoots Santana a look that may resemble something like sentimentality. 

“My mom made me hang that up,” Santana lies through a careful deadpan before tossing an old t-shirt in Quinn’s direction. 

It’s not long before all of them make it into bed and Kendall turns off the lights. Quinn's and Santana’s bodies meet at the shoulders, elbows, and hips, and that’s the most contact they make all night.

*

For the most part, at least.

“You _still_ wear socks to bed, Q?”

“You know my feet get cold.”

*

Quinn leaves the next morning with a grateful hug and a promise to treat Santana to lunch if she ever makes her way to Palo Alto. Santana hates that she finds herself kinda missing the girl when Quinn sticks her torso out of the car window to wave one last goodbye.

She’s making her way up the stairs back to her floor when she runs into Mark from Intro to Stats. 

“Hey Lopez, who was your friend?”

“Out of your league, that’s who,” she claps his back unsympathetically, and when she finally makes it back to her room, Kendall’s awake and sorting through clothes to toss into her laundry basket.

“I like Quinn,” she murmurs through a yawn, and Santana shrugs, rummaging through the mini fridge for their shared milk carton so she can pour herself a bowl of cereal.

“Yeah, she’s cool.”

“Is she the ex you were telling me about?”

Santana grabs the milk and when she closes the door to the fridge, she makes sure Kendall can see her offended grimace. “Oh _God,_ no. No way, nuh-uh,” she scoffs, and instead of letting herself feel deterred, Kendall just laughs.

“Hey, all you said was that she was blonde and hot. And, I don’t know, you two just seemed so tight last night.”

Santana’s so taken aback by the concept she accidentally overflows her bowl with Cocoa Puffs. She curses under her breath as she scoops them off the floor; all Quinn’s fault, making her waste her cereal. “Q’s straight. Or, she thinks she is at least.” Kendall looks slightly confused at that, but nonetheless, she lets Santana continue. “Besides, we’d probably bite each other’s heads off before we even made it to the second date.”

“That’s kinda hot,” is all Kendall responds with, and she’s out the door balancing her laundry basket against her hip before Santana can even dignify that with a reaction.

*

Over the next month, Santana gets a job working the front desk at the on-campus gym, rushes the school’s business fraternity (which, ok, _sounds_ pretentious, but you gotta network to get work), and finally convinces her parents to ship her car over. She and Kendall sign a lease for a tiny apartment just two blocks off-campus next year with a couple friends, and Santana feels like she’s where she’s supposed to be.

It’s radio silence between her and Quinn until the week before Thanksgiving.

_Did you get Finn’s email?_

The text flashes on Santana’s phone when she’s in the middle of an ab circuit, and she quickly types a response between rounds of leg lifts.

_yup. and as much as i wanna help the lovable losers prep for sectionals, i cant make the trip home. xmas flight already too expensive_

_Yeah, same._

Santana leaves the message be, and it’s not until she’s wiping down her exercise mat twenty minutes later that another one comes through.

_Need any company over break?_

*

So, that’s precisely how Santana finds herself making the hour-long drive to Stanford the following Tuesday, a bulky duffel bag in the passenger’s seat because Quinn’s roommate is back home in Denver for the week and it’s easier for Santana to drive down with her car than for Quinn to take public transportation all the way up to Berkeley. _(“Can’t have one of your little House on the Prairie skirts getting dirty on BART.” “Whoever’s told you that you’re funny was just being nice.”)_

As expected, Quinn’s dorm room is decorated like one that would be featured on a prospective student brochure.

“You two actually _coordinated_ a bohemian-inspired aesthetic? I feel like I’m inside an Anthropologie.”

“I like it,” Quinn shrugs, and Santana halts her unpacking when she spots the same picture of her and Quinn that she has hanging up in her room pinned on top of Quinn’s desk, along with pictures of them with Brittany; with Mercedes, Rachel, Sam, everybody. 

“You think they’ll miss us when they’re all back?”

“Maybe.” Quinn takes up the space to Santana’s left to admire the pictures with her wistfully, and the silence that fills the air between and around them begs the age-old question: _how the hell did those losers become some of the most important people in our lives?_ “We _are_ good at giving them a show, aren’t we?”

“Yeah. Probably would’ve scared half the newbies away,” Santana says, unable to stop herself from joining in when Quinn starts to laugh. “Now, are you gonna get some food in me, Fabray? I was promised sustenance and a free tour of _Stanfurd.”_

Quinn just knocks her with a light elbow before grabbing her purse and ushering them out of the room.

*

They eat lunch at this place called The Melt where each menu item consists of mac & cheese and _something_ , and spend the rest of the day window shopping and trying on clothes they know they won’t buy so that they can use their money to raid the local Trader Joe’s. Most of the residents on Quinn’s floor went home for break, so they’re gonna use the communal kitchen to attempt a Thanksgiving dinner.

“I feel smothered,” Santana complains later that night, when she’s sandwiched between Quinn and the wall her bed is slid up against. It hasn’t been long enough for her eyes to have adjusted to the complete darkness of the room, so when she flips onto her back and tries to make out the ceiling, it just feels like she’s staring into a black void.

“The floor’s right there,” is all Quinn says, her voice in that low octave it only reaches when she’s about to fall asleep.

“Whatever, Q. I’ve seen how much hair you shed. Can you scoot over a little? And I don’t think sleeping in fetal position is very space-efficient right now because-”

“Santana.” Quinn’s voice suddenly comes out all no-nonsense cheer captain, and much to Santana’s chagrin (and, admittedly, second nature), it silences her immediately. “Just stop talking.” She reaches blindly behind her and pulls Santana’s body closer to hers. “I won’t bite you, ok? Just go to sleep. Or at least be quiet.”

They’re positioned in a way now so that the heels of Quinn’s sock-covered feet press against Santana’s calves, and if Santana turned completely on her side, they would be partaking in an act considered to be spooning. And _that_ is just...that’s not their jam. But it’s the first of five nights Santana’s spending here, so she figures she might as well get used to making the space work.

She falls asleep with the tips of Quinn’s hair tickling her shoulder.

*

She wakes up with the covers stolen from her, and with her arm slung across Quinn’s waist over said-covers. She retracts her hand as if she’s touched a hot stove, and when she rolls over to face the wall, she makes an exaggerated effort to reclaim some of the covers with her.

*

“What do you wanna do today?” Quinn asks through scoops of yogurt in the dining hall later that morning. She used one of her weekly swipes on Santana—ever the giving tree, this girl—and there’s practically no one around, so Santana’s sprawled comfortably across two wooden chairs.

“Mmm,” she absentmindedly swirls at the Lucky Charm marshmallows floating around in her bowl. “I don’t know. Watch dumb movies, or dumb TV. Classes were a bitch this past week, so anything that _doesn’t_ involve critical thinking. Or my brain in general.”

Quinn doesn’t even try to hide her distaste, her head shaking as she pops a strawberry slice into her mouth. “When did you get boring, huh?”

“Don’t give me that,” Santana warns with a finger, one Quinn swats away lazily. “We have the rest of the weekend to do...whatever snooty hobby you’ve gotten yourself into for the month. By the way, what is it now? Some shit like croquet? Anyway, whatever it is, I’m game. Just let me have my one glorious day of doing absolutely nothing.” She lets out a short laugh. “But hey, maybe doing nothing is the one thing in the world you _can’t_ do.”

Ever adversed to being doubted, Quinn narrows her eyes. “Excuse me? I can _too_ do nothing.”

“Ok.” Santana traps all the marshmallows onto her spoon and takes them in one bite. Sweetness coats her tongue, and part of it comes from knowing she can pick apart Quinn’s brain like a pro. “Then prove it to me, Fabray.”

*

“We’re supposed to believe that she has _no_ idea that’s her ex-husband? They’re identical.”

“The point of watching a movie like _17 Again_ is that you’re not supposed to analyze anything. Just keep on pining over Zac Efron and pass me the gummy worms.”

*

The credits for _The Devil Wears Prada_ start scrolling on Quinn’s laptop and Santana has to pee, but Quinn, sound asleep with her head dropped onto Santana’s shoulder, keeps her right in place.

“Goddammit, Q.” Santana peers down to glance at her friend, her eyes trailing along the length and slight curl of Quinn’s eyelashes. There’s a slight furrow to her brow and a tiny pout tugging at the edge of her lips, and Santana sighs, quietly. Even in her sleep, Quinn Fabray’s mind runs a mile a minute.

In all honesty, it kind of makes Santana’s chest ache. She just wishes there was some way she could help give this girl the peace she deserves. Some way to let her know that...whatever she’s worrying about, it’ll be _fine_.

Sometimes, Santana really wants to just be there for her. So, when Quinn stirs and sleepily asks Santana if she can plug in her laptop to charge, Santana does so, snark-free. 

*

Quinn feels bad about stealing all the covers again when they sleep, so they go to Target the next day and she buys Santana a knitted quilt, because she can insist all she wants that she’ll be more conscious of it from now on, but they both know if they don’t do this, Santana will wake up tomorrow morning freezing and pissed. 

Later, they crack open a bottle of Barefoot and by the time they’ve managed to put together a decent dinner, they’re both equal amounts of tipsy. 

“You’re not gonna, like, cuss me out or something, right? Because if so, then I’m confiscating the wine.” Santana bats Quinn’s hand away so she can scoop more mashed potatoes without interference. They’ve cleared Quinn’s desk and positioned it so it’s perpendicular to her bed. They sit on opposite ends, and a Bath & Body Works candle acts as their small but mighty (and fruity) centerpiece.

Quinn just snorts, forking some green beans onto Santana’s plate because she knows that’s the only way they’ll get there. She and Santana’s mom have too much in common, sometimes. “Depends. Are you gonna cry on my shoulder and stain my sweater with your mascara?”

“Fair enough,” Santana shrugs. Then, because she wants tonight to be sweet and not sour, she raises the plastic cup that holds her wine. “Happy Thanksgiving, Q.”

Quinn smiles and mimics her. “Happy Thanksgiving, Santana.”

When it’s all but confirmed that they’ve both evolved from their formerly angry and weepy inebriated personas, they move onto another bottle. Santana’s stomach is filled with carbs, and her chest brims with a new warmth that Quinn seems to carry with her nowadays.

“I like hiking,” Quinn says as they take turns eating out of a newly-opened pint of Ben & Jerry’s. It’s so quiet, so out of the blue, that Santana has to lean over and lower the volume on her phone, which is providing the musical entertainment from Quinn’s portable speaker. 

“What?”

“Hiking,” Quinn repeats, a little louder this time. “My ‘ _hobby of the month,’_ as you referred to it. Sometimes I go with the nature-focused student org.” She scoops a brownie into her mouth, and Santana tries not to frown at the fact that’s the one she had her eye on for her next bite. “Probably sounds stupid. But after the accident, there were a lot of things I thought I’d never be able to do again. And now…”

She stops there, handing Santana the pint. Santana feels the condensation on the sides dripping onto her fingers, and she softly nudges Quinn from where they sit shoulder-to-shoulder against Quinn’s headboard. “It’s not stupid,” is all she says. 

Quinn just flashes her a smile, and the pinkness of her cheeks accentuates the curve of her dimples. Santana busies herself with another bite of ice cream before she gets caught staring.

They spend the next few hours digesting their food and talking easily. Eventually, they make their way to bed; Quinn wrapped in her thick comforter and Santana nuzzled under the blanket they bought this morning. 

It looks silly: two girls crammed in a twin size bed with their own set of covers. But it’s also the first night they don’t act like an invisible forcefield stands between them, and when Santana’s cheek eventually finds a home against the curve of Quinn’s shoulder, neither of them want to be the first to move.

* 

They spend the rest of the weekend exploring downtown Palo Alto, laying out in the quad, watching movies, and of course, getting on each other’s nerves. 

“Stop, Santana.”

They’re in the library, and Quinn’s going to absolute town on some Excel spreadsheet while Santana incessantly taps through song and song and song on the playlist that croons through the earbuds they split connected to Quinn’s phone. “Your playlist stinks.”

“Then pick another, or play your own music. Don’t you have work to do, too?”

“I’m doing it after I drive back tomorrow. C’mon, loser, it’s _Saturday._ Look around; we’re the only ones in here.” Santana gives up and tugs the earbud out of her left ear when she skips over too many Fleetwood Mac songs that remind her of junior year. She rests her chin in her hands and eyes Quinn’s laptop screen. “God, finance is so gross. And you tried to call _me_ the boring one.”

Quinn just juts out her bottom lip and exhales deeply until strands of blonde hair blow out of her face. She turns slowly to regard Santana. “If I let you decide where we order dinner tonight, will you give me just thirty more minutes for this?” 

Santana lowers her gaze to where Quinn’s hand rests atop her wrist in desperation. And like, yeah, whatever. She can do that. She can barely stand neurotic, stressed-out Fabray anyway. So she leaves Quinn alone and they end up ordering take-out from the Chinese restaurant Santana’s grown to like ten minutes from campus.

She leaves early the next morning, her phone buzzing with reminders about a last-minute shift at the gym later in the afternoon and two essays due this week that she hasn’t started yet. 

Quinn senses the slightly stressed dismay on her face as she walks Santana out to her car parked in the visitor’s lot. “You’ll be fine, San.”

“Yeah, I know. Whatever.” She pops her trunk open and roughly tosses her duffle bag inside. 

“You’ll be fine,” Quinn simply repeats again, her patience not giving away to Santana’s shortness. It almost makes Santana feel kinda shitty.

So, “yeah, I know,” she repeats, too, less asshole-ish this time. She rolls her eyes and sighs before pulling Quinn into a long hug. “Thanks for having me, Q. See you soon?”

“Yeah.”

They can’t really promise that they’ll see each other before the end of the semester; finals are around the corner and they’re both overloading on class credits, so spontaneous trips to visit each other aren’t gonna be that doable. So, it’s left at that.

“Text me when you’re back?”

“For sure. Later, blondie.” And with a playful smack to Quinn’s butt, Santana climbs into the driver’s seat and makes her way back to Berkeley.

*

She’s beyond exhausted by the time she’s back in her dorm room, and she manages to muster up a friendly greeting to Kendall before plopping down on top of her bed. The half-undone bun that droops sadly at the nape of her neck tangles even more in her hood as she does so, and when she reaches back to take it out in a huff, her hair tie nearly snaps.

Still, she pulls out her phone and opens up her text messages.

_thanks again for hosting at Casa Fabray. just got back_

Quinn’s response comes swiftly.

_Already?? I told you that you drive way too fast_

_But glad you’re safe. Get some rest, you’ll be just fine this week x_

It makes Santana smile—just a little—and a wave of calm slowly envelops all the places she needs it to. Since when did Quinn become the only person who could keep her tethered to sanity? The thought in itself is enough for her to push herself out of bed and hit the showers, and it’s not until she’s tossing clothes into her dirty pile that she realizes all her shirts smell like Quinn’s perfume. (And she doesn’t totally hate it, but don’t tell Quinn that. Or _anyone_ , for that matter.)

The rest of the semester comes and goes. Santana soldiers through final group projects, uses slow shifts at the gym to get homework done, attends study guide sessions for each of her classes and spends her weekends hanging out with Kendall and their friends. She asks Quinn for help proofreading her papers, and in turn, she (mostly) patiently talks Quinn through understanding certain concepts from her trigonometry class. 

They FaceTime occasionally, either when they have a long walk to class or they want to procrastinate studying. The calls are short and it’s usually just them making snide comments about the people around them (or each other), but whenever they go to hang up, Santana finds that she has to restrain herself from saying something absolutely insane like _miss you._

It’s just...she and Quinn have never done this before—maintained a friendship that came even remotely close to healthy and wasn’t fueled by an underlying notion of incessant, bitter competition—and on the hard days, when everyone and everything seems too far away, it helps knowing Quinn’s only an hour drive west; even if she still does make Santana want to pull her hair out, sometimes. Admittedly, it would be weird if she didn’t.

When finals are over, and they’re both packing in their respective dorms to leave for break, they FaceTime each other again. Santana has her phone balanced against her headboard as she folds shirts and dresses into her luggage, and both she and Quinn walk in and out of the screen as they move about their rooms.

“Will you, like, take a breath? I mean, you’re going back to Lima, not freakin’ North Korea or something.”

“Easy for you to say, you’re going on vacation.” Quinn’s voice is tinny on the other end of the call, and poor wifi causes a slight lag, but the clip in her tone is loud and clear. 

“Ah, yes, that’s right.” Santana breathes out the words as if Quinn just reminded her she gets to spend two weeks in the Dominican Republic with her family, when in reality, it’s all she’s been thinking about for the past month. The sun, the beach, the open tab linked to her dad’s credit card; it’ll be _heaven._

Her daydream takes a slight pause when she catches Quinn arching an eyebrow at her through her phone screen. It still holds all the sassiness it does in person, so Santana will give her that.

“Sorry. But it won’t be totally bad, right? I mean, you’ll get to see ‘Cedes, Britt, good ol’ Sammy Evans. And I’m sure Judes has been missing your sweet ass.”

“Don’t call my mother that.”

Kendall lets out a laugh from her side of the room in response, and Santana spins on her heels with a pointed finger and a, “Don’t encourage her.” She pads to the front of the room to round up some shoes before grabbing her phone from its makeshift stand on her bed. “Hey. Q.”

“Mm?”

“You’ll be fine,” Santana reassures, the same way Quinn did to her the last time they saw each other. “And, I mean, what if...how about we both fly back early and find some New Year’s party to crash? That could be fun.”

“You’re gonna leave the _Caribbean_ early just to spend New Year’s Eve with me?”

“Well, ew, don’t put it that way,” Santana mutters, and Quinn just rolls her eyes. “But, yeah. Whatever. After all that time with my family, I’ll probably need an early exit anyway.”

Quinn scratches at the back of her head as she tosses out the snacks in her room that won’t survive the three weeks she’ll be gone. “Fine. I think I’ve already heard some talks about stuff going on down here.”

“Wait, so Stanford students _actually_ have fun? Like, you’re allowed?”

“Pushing it.”

“Yeah, I do that. But hey, listen, I gotta go. Kendall and I are grabbing dinner with a few friends in a bit and I need to hop in the shower.”

“Ok.” Quinn halts her packing and brings her phone closer to her face. She’s wearing her glasses and she looks tired but she shoots Santana a smile anyway, and one might say Santana finds it endearing. _Might._ “Have fun with your family.”

“Thanks. Say hi to everyone for me,” Santana says, genuinely. “Talk to you soon?”

“Yeah. Bye, S.”

“See you.” Santana hangs up and tosses her phone back on the bed, sighing loudly as she eyes the disoriented piles of clothes in front of her. She could’ve sworn she sorted those better, but she guesses she got distracted listening to Quinn complain about a professor and a grade curve on a final (or lack thereof). And, like, _how_ did she get to a point where she willingly listens to that girl’s nonsensical rants without sliding in a comment about the stick that’s lodged up her ass?

The other day, Kendall compared them to Sour Patch Kids. They were in a Target and she tugged a pack off a shelf in the candy aisle and said, “Sour then sweet. Just like you and Quinn.”

Santana just elbowed her softly and reached for Jolly Ranchers instead.

*

Santana spends half of her time in the Dominican Republican tanning beachside, and the other half getting drunk with her brothers. And when she does both at once, well— _that’s_ glorious. She’s warm and happy and doesn’t even pretend to act annoyed or embarrassed when her mom affectionately refers to her as _Santanita_ because she can tell it means a lot to her parents that the whole family is finally together, and maybe Santana needed this more than she would ever admit.

The only tinge of longing she feels is when she opens up Instagram and sees pictures of the glee club altogether at Breadstix. They just look so _happy_ and it’s been so long since she’s seen any of them and she even finds herself missing Rachel when she spots her in the picture grinning widely next to Mike. Not to mention she finally looks like she knows how to properly apply eyeliner now, so. Good for her. 

Neither she nor Quinn have international data plans on their phones, so the only time they talk is to coordinate flights back to the Bay. Santana’s family is planning on flying to Lima before New Year’s anyway, so she convinces her parents to just let her book a flight to Oakland the morning of the 31st.

Other than that, the only interactions they share over break are through Instagram and Facebook comments, so when Santana drives down to Palo Alto on New Year’s Eve and Quinn greets her at the visitor’s parking lot, they’re maybe kind of totally relieved to see each other.

“Somebody got some sun,” is the first thing Quinn says to her, her hands stuffed regally in the pockets of her pea coat, and Santana laughs as she clicks the locks to her car and shoulders her duffle bag.

“And it wasn’t you,” she teases easily, all while wrapping her arms tightly around Quinn’s middle. “Looking good, though, Q.”

It’s 10pm when they start walking over to the house party one of Quinn’s friends texted her about, and _maybe_ they should’ve thought this through because they’re technically still on East Coast time, but they promise each other that they’ll rally because they’re not gonna be _those_ people who clock out before midnight on New Year’s.

It morphs into them promising to match each other drink for drink, and Santana cannot remember the last time she willingly downed this much vodka. The taste is gross and it makes her _feel_ gross, but she also can’t remember the last time she ever let herself come second to Lucy Quinn Fabray.

So whenever Quinn grins at her, a challenging look in her eye, Santana throws a shot back like a champ. There are bartenders serving them that she can only assume are fraternity pledges, and the look on their faces as they watch Quinn and Santana handle their liquor is mildly entertaining.

They get approached by guys all night, and Santana will admit, some of them have a nice head on their shoulders, but they essentially serve no purpose since drinks are already free, so she’ll graciously allow them a couple minutes to try and smoothly babble her ear off before shooing them away.

Quinn, on the other hand, engages them in conversation and drapes over their arm whenever she laughs at one of their jokes, and Santana has to bite back a groan. Quinn may be vastly different from the girl she was in high school, but evidently, some things never change.

And yeah, _fine,_ maybe half the reason Santana’s getting her panties in a twist is because the prospect of Quinn getting action tonight when Santana hasn’t gotten any in _months_ is nothing less than blasphemy. Just the mere thought of it throws Santana off her game during a round of Flip Cup with a bunch of strangers, and the beer sloshing around in her stomach begs for a bathroom run. 

Because they’ve always been weirdly in sync, she runs into Quinn on the way there. They got separated sometime in the past hour and when she wasn’t ruining her otherwise clean track record when it comes to drinking games, Santana actually got to know some of Quinn’s friends. They’re funny like Sam and sweet like Tina, and although Santana’s kind of annoyed Quinn ditched her, they wordlessly pile into the way-too-tiny bathroom together without a second thought.

Santana takes to peeing as soon as Quinn starts inspecting her hair in the mirror. It’s dark at the roots, especially where it’s damp with sweat, but in all other aspects, it reminds Santana of how it looked sophomore year of high school; longer, falling in near-perfect curtains down past Quinn’s shoulders. “Am I getting sexiled tonight?” she finally asks after she flushes, and Quinn has to back up against the wall in order for Santana to maneuver around her and get to the sink.

“What are you talking about?”

“You’ve been giving that one dude your weird little doe eyes all night. It’s the same way every guy would look at you in high school.” She pumps the soap bottle, like, a gazillion times because this bathroom is beyond disgusting.

_“Jacob?_ Oh, no. We’re just friends because we had a final project together. It’s not like that, I’ve never even kissed him.”

“Hm,” Santana just murmurs as she wrings her hands together above the sink, and she tells herself there’s no rhyme or reason to the wave of relief that suddenly surges through the pit of her stomach. “I wouldn’t have known because I haven’t even _seen_ you for the past hour.”

Instead of defending herself like Santana expected, Quinn just softly nudges her aside so she can wash her hands. “Shit, I know. I’m sorry. Lunch on me tomorrow to make it up to you.”

“Hm,” Santana acknowledges again, this time with more enthusiasm and something shy of a smile. “Good.”

Quinn shoots her a playful eye roll before trying to get some soap onto her hands; only droplets sputter out of the bottle and she _tsks_ her tongue. “You used it all, San.”

“Yeah, and it still wasn’t enough,” Santana quips, but she starts opening cabinets to look for a new bottle. “Here, move. We’ll find another.”

Quinn’s on her tiptoes reaching for one at the very back of the cabinet above the toilet when people start counting down outside the door.

_“10! 9! 8!”_

“Oh my _God,_ Quinn, we’re literally gonna miss it, just get the damn soap!”

“I’m _trying._ Ugh, I knew I should’ve worn wedges.”

_“3! 2! 1! Happy New Year’s!”_

Quinn grabs ahold of the soap right then, a triumphant grunt escaping her throat, and she and Santana just look at each other in exasperation as they hear everyone at the party cheer raucously. 

So, yeah. They both flew across the country for New Year’s Eve only to be sandwiched in a gross bathroom together at the stroke of midnight. It’s true.

... _and_ also kinda funny, so when Quinn finishes drying her hands, she and Santana start to laugh deliriously.

“You know, I had actually had a New Year’s kiss in mind for tonight. This is... _well_. This is a close second, I guess,” Quinn says, playfully.

Santana just rolls her eyes, and without thinking, she tugs on Quinn’s dress until their lips pucker against each other. It’s quick, it’s chaste, it’s harmless, and when she steps back, she thinks Quinn might flip a shit or two, but they just start to laugh, again. “Jeez, there. You’re so dramatic, you know that?”

Quinn nods to go along with it as she swings open the door to the bathroom, a smirk planted naturally on her lips. “Too much time with you.”

*

The crowd eventually panders out and they end up at an IHOP just off campus with Quinn’s friends. Santana had no idea an omelette could taste this good at one in the morning, but. So goes it.

She talks easily with Ella, Norah, and Addison, to the point where she thinks maybe she could call them her _own_ friends as opposed to just Quinn’s. Quinn is slumped against her side, half-asleep because it’s technically 4am in Lima and Santana’s learned through countless sleepovers that she’s not necessarily a night owl. The most she contributes to the meal is when she sits herself up to pick at Santana’s side of potatoes. “Get your own,” Santana mutters, annoyed, but even so, she’s squirting ketchup onto her plate for Quinn anyway.

Later, when their food is gone and their check is split and paid for, they walk back to the dorms. Ella, Norah, and Addison insist they all hang out again before Santana goes back to Berkeley, and Santana thinks— _maybe_ —that Stanford kids aren’t that bad.

*

And, listen. She didn’t _feel_ anything when she and Quinn kissed in the bathroom, ok? It was barely a peck, and it’s...it’s _Quinn._ That speaks for itself. Honestly.

But they’re in bed now, tucked under their respective blankets, and all the buzz and adrenaline from the party has died down, and they’re actually facing each other, and Quinn’s bottom lip is tucked in between her teeth thoughtfully, and if Santana wanted to, she could just—

It’s Quinn who leans in (and Santana’s _totally_ gonna hold that over her in the future whenever it’s convenient), and when their mouths meet, she tugs a hand out from under her blanket and cups Santana’s jaw, carefully, so as to keep her in place. So as to make sure she doesn’t go anywhere. 

In all honesty, when Quinn lets out a quiet sigh that seemingly echoes against each of the walls that surrounds them, Santana finds that there’s nowhere she’d rather be.

The kisses stay slow and careful, but they get deeper, _deeper_ , and eventually, the only sounds that fill the room are Quinn and Santana’s lips smacking together and the sounds of pleasure that they let slip without meaning to. Santana can’t even find it in her to care, because the things Quinn can do with her tongue…

Simply put, there’s no questioning how she had all her high school boyfriends wrapped around her pinky without ever letting them get past second base.

One of Quinn’s hands has slid to the side of Santana’s neck, and the pads of her fingers radiate a heat that presses into Santana’s skin and fans out _everywhere_. And God, all they’re doing is making out, but she’s groaning into Quinn’s mouth and everything feels too good for her to be embarrassed and—

“San,” Quinn pulls away, and even in the dark, Santana can see how swollen her lips are. Her chest heaves deeply, and her hair’s a tangled mess as a result of Santana’s fingers, but above anything, she looks beautiful. “Sorry, I...can we just-”

“Yeah,” Santana says, gently, not forcing Quinn to say the words aloud because seeing the girl so flustered makes her chest feel heavy. “We can slow down, Q.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure,” Santana chuckles, and she tries not to think about the implications of the fact that’s something Quinn feels like she even needs to _ask_ in a situation like this. “We can just go to bed.”

“Ok,” Quinn sighs, and she pulls back the leg that somehow wedged itself in between Santana’s despite the two layers of blankets that still stand between them. She doesn’t roll over to face the other side of the room. “Happy New Year, by the way.”

“Happy New Year.” Santana doesn’t roll over either.

*

“Not _that_ into that, right?” Santana teases the next morning, as she’s stretching out the knots in her arms and legs and Quinn’s rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. 

Quinn just sits up slowly, laughs, and lifts up her pillow before tossing it back down on top of Santana’s face.

*

It’s as much acknowledgement as either of them give it, which is fine with Santana. And maybe it’s a little messed up because, yeah, there’s stuff to unpack; for one, there’s the fact that she wanted to literally fuck Quinn Fabray last night, and then there’s the fact that—and Santana’s sure of this—Quinn wanted it, too.

But Santana doesn’t even want to _think_ about the former, and as for the latter…

Look, she may give Quinn shit about a lot of things, but she’s not about to be the ass-hat that forces her to confront her sexuality before she’s ready. So, that’s that.

*

They end up booking tickets on the same flight to Lima for Mr. Schue’s wedding next month. Santana’s middle finger hovers hesitantly over her laptop’s trackpad, because it’ll be her first time back since leaving last August, but Quinn lingers behind the desk chair she sits in and squeezes her shoulder in encouragement. The gesture’s enough to urge her to finally press the _confirm payment_ button, and she exhales a sigh, raking her fingers through her hair. 

The day before Quinn starts classes for the quarter, Santana makes her way back to Berkeley. 

She’s on the semester system, so classes don’t start for another week, and when Kendall comes back from Napa, they spend their days meeting up with friends and getting high. They split a joint in the middle of the quad, and Santana thanks all the times she took up Puck and Sam’s offers to smoke these things in high school so that she doesn’t look like a complete rookie right now. 

There’s a tranquility that comes with every inhale and exhale of smoke, something so peaceful about the blades of grass that poke into her skin when she goes to lay on her back. In that moment alone, she’s not an ex-cheerleader, not an ex-girlfriend, not a disappointment of a granddaughter. She’s just _Santana,_ and that’s enough. It’s then that she realizes maybe it always _has_ been enough.

When classes resume, so do her shifts at the gym, and she and Quinn are both too wrapped up adjusting to their new schedules to maintain the constant contact they’ve grown accustomed to. There’s a spare text message here and there, typically an offhand comment about the day that they’re having, but nothing substantial. 

Santana’s at work, Britney Spears songs playing from her laptop at a low volume as she swipes in students into the gym when she gets a text from Tina.

Years ago, she would’ve wondered how the hell Girl Chang even got her number, but ever since they decided to team up and take on songwriting together before Regionals junior year, Santana’s considered them to be friends. They schedule a call once a month just to keep each other updated on things, and Tina’s one of the only people who hasn’t made Santana want to rip her hair out, so Santana’s actually really glad they keep in touch.

She calls Tina after her shift, on her walk back to her dorm, and she laughs when Tina exclaims how excited she is to see Santana at the wedding. There’s a genuine joy that radiates off of her, somewhat reminiscent of Brittany, and Santana can’t believe this is the same girl she mentally referred to as a modern-day, female Dracula when she first joined glee club. 

The conversation flows easily, to the point that Santana forgoes making her way back up to her room and instead takes a seat at a random bench in front of the student center. One leg is pulled up onto the bench and she rests an arm on her bent knee when she realizes Tina just mentioned something about Brittany and Sam and a wedding.

“Wait, what?” she laughs a little, confused, pinching her eyebrows together. She hears Tina swallow on the other end of the line, and she prods again. “T, what did you say?”

“Um,” Tina says, clearing her throat. “I just, you know-” she stammers through a few more incoherent sentences before simply saying, “Santana, I’m sorry, I thought...I figured you knew, that Brittany might’ve told you-”

“No, she didn’t,” Santana mumbles, and in an instant, all she can think about, all she can _feel,_ is the anguish and hurt that twitch at her muscles. “Hey, I gotta go.”

“Oh, ok. I’m sorry again-”

“It’s _fine,_ Tina,” Santana says, trying extra hard to keep her voice even because she’s not about to cuss out one of the few people she’s never hurt for something that isn’t even her fault. “I’ll see you at Schue’s wedding.” She hangs up before Tina can apologize again.

*

It makes no sense. She knew that Brittany and Sam were a thing and she could handle that, whatever. It’s been over a year since she and Brittany broke up and long gone are the days she once spent thinking about what could’ve been.

But _married?_ And Santana had to hear about it like _this?_ Not to mention that Brittany, under the impression that the world was ending, didn’t even so much as send her a text message.

It sucks. Makes her feel like shit.

She practically yanks her earbuds out once she gets to her room, chucking them and her phone onto her bed and ignoring the curious look Kendall’s sporting from her desk.

“You good?” Kendall asks.

“No,” Santana says simply, picking her phone back up and FaceTiming Quinn.

It rings three times, and when Quinn answers, she’s sweating and out of breath, her hair tied back in a tight, high ponytail. She looks so much like Cheerios Quinn that Santana almost forgets it’s her turn to speak after Quinn greets her with a, “Hey, S.”

“Sam and Britt? Our exes? They got fucking _married,”_ she fumes in lieu of a proper greeting. Quinn just lifts her eyebrows, and Santana groans loudly into her pillow as she drops down onto her bed. “Brittany didn’t even tell me, I had to find out from Tina and sound like a fucking idiot on the phone. Like, _what the hell?”_

Quinn wipes some sweat off of her forehead with the back of her hand. “Santana,” she sighs, a slight frown playing at her lips, and Santana flickers her gaze back defeatedly to her phone screen. 

“What, did I interrupt a yoga session or something? Because I can call back later.”

“Pilates, actually, but I finished, like, ten minutes ago. You’re fine.” She sighs, again, scratching at the back of her head. “Look. Do _not_ murder me.”

At those words, Santana sits up straighter, her chin tipping upwards instinctively. She says nothing; just raises her eyebrows as if to prompt Quinn to continue.

Quinn licks her lips, cautiously eyeing Kendall in the background of Santana’s camera shot, and Santana narrows her eyes. Eventually, she gets the point; there’s a sudden tension between them that indicates they’re about to air out some shit, and there’s no need to drag the innocent roommate into it.

So she grabs her earbuds again and makes her way to the empty common room on her floor, settling into the corner of the ragged, blue couch that sits against the far wall. “Well?”

“I knew, ok? About the... _Mayan wedding_ or whatever the hell it was. I guess it had happened sometime before I was back home, and Sam mentioned it to me when we went out for lunch.”

Irritation immediately flares in and around Santana’s chest. “Ok...and, what? You didn’t care to pass along the _wonderful_ news, Q?”

“Ok, well, I didn’t realize I was supposed to act as the liaison between you and Brittany.” Her laugh is so dry it’s better off classified as a scoff, and all of a sudden, she and Santana are back in high school again, walls and walls piling up between them. “I mean, is _that_ why we’ve been so close this year? So I could help you keep tabs on your ex-girlfriend?”

“Oh, shut the hell up, Fabray. You of all people know it hasn’t been like that between me and Brittany for a while-”

“Then why am I the one being bitched out right now? Hm? I didn’t officiate the goddamn ceremony, Santana, so I don’t know why you’re getting all pissy at me.”

“God, you play the bullshit victim card like it’s an Olympic sport, you know that?” Santana rests her elbows on her knees, leaning forward so that her hair curtains around the sides of her face. And maybe Quinn has a point—maybe this is less about her knowing and more about Santana realizing she and Brittany aren’t as close as she thought they were—but she’s just so _hurt_ and angry and Quinn is looking at her like she’s all-bitch, head cheerleader all over again, and Santana knows that it’s purely a defense mechanism, but—

She can’t find it in her to show any vulnerability right now. Moments like these remind her of why it was always so much easier to be a bitch.

“You’re so full of it.” Quinn tears her from her train of thought, shaking her head. “Just when I think things are finally good between the two of us, you go back to taking all your anger out on me. I mean, why didn’t you call _Brittany_ about this? Needed to use me as a punching bag again?”

_Because I can’t even_ talk _to Brittany like this anymore,_ is what Santana wants to say. But she can’t handle letting Quinn poke around in the places it hurts right now, so she just rolls her eyes instead. “I feel _so stupid_ being the last to know,” she sneers, and if she could even handle looking at Quinn’s face, she would see the way the blonde’s hard expression falters, ever so slightly. 

She disconnects the call and kicks at chipped paint on one of the walls on her way back to her room.

*

The text message she gets from Quinn later that night is sarcastic and biting.

_Glad we’re always so willing to talk through things._

*

Needless to say, that’s the extent of their contact for the entire month. Santana even looks online to see if she can book a different flight back to Lima, and she shuts her laptop closed in frustration when she finds out she’d have to pay a stupidly expensive reservation change fee.

“I don’t even know I should go anymore,” she says one night, when she and Kendall are filling out the stupid mental health check forms their RA administers to them each semester.

“Didn’t you say this teacher, like, changed your life or something?” Kendall asks, tapping her pencil eraser against the sheet of paper on her lap. “You should go. Besides, I kind of assumed you and Quinn were fine. It’s been a few weeks.”

Santana shakes her head. “You never saw us in high school. When it’s bad, it’s _bad_. _”_

“Well, I still think you should go. And not just because I may or may not have told my boyfriend he could stay that weekend.” She shoots Santana an overly-sweet smile, and Santana manages a laugh through an eye roll.

She glances at the calendar that hangs above her desk, and purses her lips. Her flight’s in two weeks.


	2. made your mark on me, a golden tattoo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Dress by Taylor Swift

Kendall drops her off at SFO two hours before her flight, and Santana just hopes she doesn’t run into Quinn before she reaches the gate. It’s more pride than it is anger, and she knows it’s stupid, but she had a shitty sleep last night and just wants to get on the plane so she can knock out for four and a half hours. 

...on the other hand, she really _doesn’t_ want an unpleasant weekend, so when she goes to order herself a bagel at one of the kiosks in her terminal, she gets one for Quinn, too. Because spending $3.25 on her is easier than a _sorry_.

Santana kills time strolling into convenience shops and flipping through magazines she knows she won’t buy, and it’s not until she hears a boarding announcement for her flight that she makes her way to the gate.

Quinn is there already, cross-legged in one of the seats and clad in a loose Stanford hoodie and leggings. It’s a notable sight, because she never actually dresses for comfort over style, and Santana’s padding over to her just as she’s slipping a textbook into her backpack. _Of course_ she’s already getting a head start on homework—she’s such a nerd sometimes. 

“Q,” she says in greeting, and Quinn flashes her a smile as she pops the cap back onto her highlighter.

“Hi.”

Santana extends the brown paper bag in her left hand. “This isn’t, like, an _apology_ , ok? Just a bagel with egg and cheese.”

Quinn laughs a little, and she reaches at the table beside her seat to grab something. “And this is just a strawberry banana smoothie.”

They exchange their peace offerings, and Santana uses her free hand to help Quinn up. “I’m getting the window seat, by the way,” she says, and she laughs when Quinn just elbows her side, playfully.

So, all is well. They’ll work on properly communicating and apologizing some other time. Maybe.

*

The air in Lima is just as cold and unforgiving as it was when Santana left for California six months ago, and as she stands on the steps of the church on Saturday morning balancing a cigarette between her fingers, she suddenly wishes she took up her mom’s offer to borrow her long coat as opposed to the sleeveless fur shawl she’s wearing right now.

“You think you’d know how to properly dress for the weather. Being born and raised here, and all.” Quinn’s using her compact mirror to primp her hair to Santana’s left, and Santana just narrows her eyes. Why does she willingly spend so much time with this girl?

She cranes her neck towards the parking lot as Sam and Brittany pull into a spot, as Kurt and Blaine help each other straighten their ties in front of Blaine’s car, as Finn and Rachel talk civilly in front of Finn’s and try to live under the guise that they don’t want to exchange handies in the backseat oh so badly. 

So, yeah, _that’s_ why. Even this weekend, she and Quinn are stuck together by default. 

Still, Santana’s genuinely happy to see everyone, and after she butts out the cig and snags a piece of gum from Quinn, she goes to greet their friends. 

Finn still sports his dopey grin, Brittany still smells like lavender, and Mike still moves with a grace that only he (or Brittany) could exhibit so naturally. Kurt greets her by brushing their cheeks together, and Santana wants to balk at the _adult-ness_ of it all, but it’s so _him_ that she lets it slide without any remarks. She’s missed the guy.

They’re all slowly ushered into the church, and Santana and Quinn pile into one of the pews together. The guy sitting next to them holds seemingly no regard for personal space, so Quinn has to all but lean into Santana to keep him out of her bubble.

And, ok, Santana’s sex life must be a colossal _tragedy_ right now, because the way the sides of her and Quinn’s bare thighs brush together every few seconds is just—

It’s a good thing they’re in a church, is all she has to say about that. Lord knows she needs to recite a few prayers right now.

*

It’d be hilarious if it wasn’t so sad—and if Santana didn’t blow three paychecks on her roundtrip flights to attend this goddamn ceremony—but Ms. Pillsbury is a no-show.

All the glee kids linger in the lobby, murmuring quietly in small groups as they try to navigate what they’re supposed to do now. Santana nearly quips that they should break out into a song or something, but Finn had this look on his face like he was about to pass out and everyone just feels so _bad_ that there’s not much room for levity. So, for the first time in her life, she keeps her mouth shut.

“Someone has to ask him about the reception,” Kurt shrugs, his hands raised for emphasis. 

“Jesus, the body’s not even cold yet,” Quinn says.

“Quinn, while I’m ecstatic that California has improved your morals, I’m just thinking about the venue. Everything has been set up and paid for, and we need to see what Mr. Schue wants to do.”

“I vote for Santana to ask,” Rachel chimes in quickly, and Santana grimaces.

“I’m not going back in there.” She tips her head towards the doors to the main church, where Finn and Mr. Schue have been inside since everyone vacated. “What if he’s crying or some shit?”

“I also vote for Santana,” Kurt says. Santana scoffs; of course New York’s very own tweedledee and tweedledum are the first to offer their unwanted opinions.

The rest of the alumni start to voice their agreements, as do Sam, Tina, Blaine, and Brittany. The new kids look like they’re too afraid to say anything to her, so she just turns to Quinn, who offers her a shrug.

“Alright, fine,” she huffs, her heels clicking loudly as she makes a move towards the doors. “If it’s happening, you all owe me a drink.”

*

The reception lives to see the light of day, and Santana spends most of dinner listening to Kurt and Rachel regaling their New York adventures. She learns that they got a spacious loft in Bushwick together, and that Rachel and her NYADA boyfriend are going _“as strong as ever,”_ which strikes Santana as odd considering she’s been shooting Finn these looks all night like she’s about to jump his bones any second.

Quinn must sense the gears turning in her head, because she nudges Santana from her seat, where she’s also dutifully listening. They exchange amused chuckles before turning their attention back to their dinnertime TED Talk.

Kurt and Rachel are personified cliches, there’s no doubt about that, but they seem really happy, and Santana’s glad that they have each other. 

She excuses herself to go to the bathroom when Quinn and Kurt are in deep conversation regarding his Vogue internship, and because there must be absolutely no God out there looking out for her, Brittany and Sam are talking closely in one of the hallways she has to walk through on the way there.

“Oh, hey San,” Brittany automatically grins, and Santana wiggles her fingers in a one-handed wave. “Hey, I’ll meet you back at the table, ok?” she pats Sam’s chest, and Sam nods his head before mock-saluting Santana and making his way back to the main ballroom. Santana rolls her eyes, but it’s laced with some endearment. Sam is still so weird. “How are you? I haven’t seen you much today.”

Santana shrugs and nods her head, a sigh escaping her as her hands find her hips. “I’m, uh, good. Yeah, I’m good.” 

Brittany has this look on her face like she expected a more elaborate answer, so when Santana just starts busying her bottom lip between her teeth, Brittany lifts her eyebrows. “Ok, cool,” she says. Her smile is a little confused but a whole lot genuine, and just the sight of it makes Santana drop the facade of indifference. 

“Sorry,” she mumbles, exhaling a laugh as if that’ll lighten the air between them. “I’m just tired from the traveling, is all.” 

_“Right,”_ Brittany snaps her fingers in realization. “You crossed, like, two timezones in the span of four hours, so that’s basically like time traveling.” 

“Yeah, kind of,” Santana laughs again, allowing more of it to filter out. Then, because her phone call with Quinn more than a month ago still ruminates in the corners of her mind, she clears her throat and speaks again. “Also, Britt, there’s- I wanted to talk to you about something.”

“Oh, ok,” Brittany says, taking half a step closer to her. “Everything good?”

“Sorta?” Santana lifts an unsure shoulder, before taking a second to herself and pulling her shoulders back ever so slightly. “I mean, yeah. Everything’s fine. I just...first off, I’m not looking for any explanations, or excuses, or apologies, or _anything.”_

Brittany nods her head, and her eyebrows pinch together in slight worry. Once upon a time, all Santana had to do was lean forward and kiss it away, but that was before. _Before_ before. This is now, and _now,_ she holds her ground, straightening the posture of her back.

“It didn’t feel good learning about your and Sam’s ‘wedding’ through other people. It felt...pretty embarrassing and kinda shitty, to be honest. And it’s not because I was jealous, but because we’re still best friends, and I thought best friends talk to each other about things like that. I’m not...I’m not _mad_ or anything, and I don’t want you thinking I am. I just need you to know how it made me feel.” She says the words without stuttering, without falter or malice. “Ok?”

There’s guilt etched all across Brittany’s face, and her eyes are somewhat pleading when she starts saying, “Santana, I-”

“Hey. What did I say, remember?” Santana says, gently. She reaches forward and rubs at Brittany’s forearm. “I don’t wanna get into it. At least not tonight.”

“Ok,” Brittany murmurs, resigning despite the fact she’s clearly still upset. She bites on the inside of her cheek, needing some form of reassurance, and Santana meets her gaze.

“We can talk some other time, I promise.” She nods her head until Brittany mimics the action, her shoulders relaxing. “I think today’s had enough drama, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Brittany giggles quietly. After a few moments, “Sorry. I’ll let you go pee.”

“Thanks,” Santana laughs, and because this might be the last moment in awhile she’ll get alone with Brittany, she steps forward and pulls her into a hug. “We’re fine, B.”

Brittany nods against her cheek, then they pull away. Santana strides towards the bathrooms, Brittany down the hall.

Minutes later, when Santana’s back in the ballroom, she spots Quinn dancing with Mike and Rachel as Kurt and Blaine perform a song onstage, her hair flowing freely as she sways from side to side and lets Mike spin her around playfully.

“Hey.” Santana nods towards Mike and Rachel when the song ends before pulling Quinn aside, towards the table where they kept their coats and purses. “Emily Stark available tonight?”

“She should be,” Quinn says, already reaching for her wallet to double check. “Although, I’m not loving the fact that this wording makes her sound like a prostitute. Why do you ask?”

Santana dips two fingers into her bra and pulls out a flimsy, plastic card with a smirk. “Time to drink.”

*

“Ok, so listen.” Santana slides a newly-filled flute of champagne across the bar counter she and Quinn lean on, shifting on her heels because what she’s about to say...it’s heresy, basically. “You were right.”

Quinn arches a careful eyebrow as she brings the drink up to her mouth, and her warm breath fogs up the brim of the glass. She takes a long sip. “Well, I’m not about to argue with that,” she says. “But can I ask what exactly you’re referring to?”

“I should’ve talked it out with Brittany when I found out about the wedding. Wasn’t fair of me to unload all my shit on you, or whatever.” It’s not exactly a heartfelt admission and the words _I’m sorry_ don’t leave her lips, but when it comes to her and Quinn, she knows it’s more than she’s ever really offered.

Quinn knows this, too, because she just nods her head, motioning towards the bartender to pour them another round once Santana drains the last sip of champagne from her glass. “I get it. I would’ve reacted the same way if I were you.” 

Santana utters a quick _thanks_ as she’s topped off before pivoting on her heels and observing the room; the glee kids are scattered, having essentially relegated back to the pairs they entered the church as, and Santana’s unsurprised. They’ve always been cliquey like that.

“And, I guess in the spirit of honesty…” Quinn starts, her elbow knocking against Santana’s on the counter before she slowly tugs them away from the bar, away from any wandering ears. “I should tell you that I think about New Year’s. A lot more than I’d care to admit.”

Santana nearly stumbles over her heels, and she hopes Quinn doesn’t catch the way her eyes widen for a fraction of a second. After a few beats, when she finally collects herself, all she asks is, _“A lot_ more?”

Quinn lifts her shoulder in what’s supposed to be a poker-faced shrug, but the shy smile on her lips gives way to a silent answer. “I know what you’re wondering, and I’m not secretly in love with you or anything.” Santana laughs at that, because yeah. As if. “However, I’ve done some... _reflecting,_ as of late. A good, healthy kind of reflecting.”

“God, you’re so weirdly ambiguous,” Santana says, and there’s a slight pause in conversation when Artie and his date maneuver around Santana and Quinn to head towards the exit. Santana just purses her lips, slightly impressed. Good for Artie. “Look, I’m not gonna put a gun to your head and ask you whether or not you like girls. Just, y’know…if there’s ever gonna be a part two or whatever, we should at least be on the same page about things.”

Quinn nods silently, twirling the stem of her champagne glass between her fingers. “Are we on the same page tonight?”

“We can be,” Santana offers, brushing hair back and away from her face, and Quinn just eyes her meaningfully. Purposefully. 

She opens her mouth to respond, then she’s cut off by Sue summoning all the women in the room to catch the flower bouquet she’s about to toss from the stage. Santana pinches her eyebrows together slightly, because isn’t that what the bride’s supposed to do?

Quinn just breathes out a laugh and tugs Santana with her towards the dance floor.

*

The bouquet lands in Rachel’s hands _(surprise, surprise),_ and Santana’s more than eager to continue her conversation with Quinn when she gets whisked into dancing with Mike and Sam. She loses sight of the blonde in the process, and four songs later, Santana spots her in deep conversation with Tina back at one of the glee club’s assigned tables. 

Quinn tips her head back in laughter, smooths out her hair, and occasionally places a hand on Tina’s shoulder as she speaks, and it’s then that Santana realizes just how _entrancing_ she is. 

She’s a force of nature; a magnet that pulls in the attention of anyone who dare put themselves within her reach. And Santana’s realizing that, just maybe, she’s not as immune to it as she previously thought. It scares her, in a way—knowing that Quinn has some kind of emotional hold on her.

It’s sometime later in the night when Finn and Rachel take the stage to perform a ballad—and, seriously, certain aspects of this wedding make Santana feel like she’s in high school all over again—and she bumps into Quinn on her way to sit down and rest her feet. 

“I’m not about to let us be those sad singles in the corner when all of our friends are out here dancing,” is all Quinn says when she offers a hand, and Santana’s sure there’s a comeback in her repertoire she could fire back with, but as her eyes scan the room, Quinn has a point. Even Mike and Tina seem to have put the break-up aside and slow dance with each other. 

So she takes Quinn’s hand swiftly, leading them both towards the dance floor. Her free hand eventually takes purchase on the curve of Quinn’s waist, and it’s not long before their bodies find the rhythm of the music together.

Santana can practically _feel_ the wandering, curious eyes on them—because, um, Quinn Fabray and Santana Lopez? They don’t do this shit.

But maybe, just for tonight, they do, and it’s like Quinn said over Thanksgiving break: they’ve always been good at giving everyone something to talk about.

“What are you thinking about?” Santana asks halfway through the song, her voice just barely audible over the music. Quinn pulls back from where her cheek was pressed against Santana’s hair, and her lips thin, thoughtfully.

“Us,” she breathes out, her fingers splaying more widely across the small of Santana’s back. 

“I don’t think you’re the only one,” Santana says, catching Kurt’s gaze from a few feet away. There’s eye contact for a split second before he’s quickly darting his eyes away.

Quinn laughs, chewing down on the inside of her bottom lip. “I don’t know the answers to a lot of things,” she says, almost hesitantly. “All I know is how good you made me feel.” Her voice resides in a husky, low alto, and Santana feels a pang of heat shoot down her sternum, flooding into her chest and deep in her belly. 

“Let me make you feel even better, then,” she says, because what may or may not be currently conspiring between her and Quinn right now...it’s not going to lead to anything more than a night of fun, but don’t they both deserve at least that? After everything they’ve been through?

“Is that a promise?” Quinn teases challengingly, because gaining the upper hand has always been the name of their game.

Luckily for Santana, she’s spent the last four years perfecting her tactics. There’s a self-satisfied smirk on her face when she replies with, “Think you know better than to call my bluff, Q.”

*

There’s a block of hotel rooms rented upstairs for out-of-state guests, and Quinn and Santana manage to get themselves a room key to one of the vacant ones. (The shaggy-haired guy in his 20s working the front desk didn’t ask too many questions, just tried to pretend he wasn’t eyeing the way Santana was pressed closely into Quinn’s side. 

Santana laughed at the way Quinn blew him a kiss on their way to the elevators, just because.)

They make their way inside the room, and Santana waits rather patiently as Quinn slides her jacket off her shoulders and neatly drapes it over the back of the desk chair. It’s annoyingly endearing, and it serves as a reminder that Santana won’t be able to do everything on impulse tonight—rip Quinn’s dress off, throw her onto the bed, fuck her senseless—because, well, this is _Quinn._ And when it comes to things like sex, and intimacy…

Simply put, ever since Puck, this is something Quinn needs to take the reins on, and Santana gets it.

Right now is no different; Quinn licks her lips deliberately before pulling Santana closer by the front of her dress. Their mouths ghost just centimeters apart from each other, then Santana bites the bullet and leans in. 

Quinn’s lips are just as careful and soft as she remembers, and Santana allows them some time to find a good rhythm before she slowly guides their bodies towards the bed. She’s not sure how much longer she’ll have the strength to stand upright, and she needs to be on top of Quinn, like, _now._

And this may be Quinn’s first time with a woman, but she’s surely not a rookie when it comes to this sort of thing, so she takes the hint and falls back onto the bed, bringing Santana down with her as she lays down onto her back. Her dress rides higher up her thighs in the process, and Santana can sense she’s fighting the urge to pull it back down, so she climbs astride Quinn’s hips before she can do so.

There’s an undeniable glint of lust behind Quinn’s eyes, but there’s also a shadow of nerves, so Santana cups the side of her face and dips her head down to press a long kiss to her lips. And, to alleviate some of the pressure, “Always knew I’d top you, Fabray.”

It works, because Quinn breaks out into a grin before reaching up to bury her fingers in Santana’s neatly-done curls, tugging lightly. Santana’s head tips back in response. “Show me why I should let you,” she husks lowly, and _Jesus Christ,_ how the hell has Santana gone years listening to that low timbre without absolutely losing her shit like she is right now?

She musters up a smirk before finding Quinn’s lips again, before leaving a trail of kisses along Quinn’s cheekbone, just underneath her ear, and the length of her jaw. The kisses are more purposeful, more urgent when she gets to the juncture of Quinn neck, and she begins to suck lightly at the smooth skin there, eliciting a breathy gasp. 

It’s like a sonnet to Santana’s ears, a perfect melody, and she grins as she drags her lips lower. 

It’s not long before Quinn’s dress is in the way, and Santana lifts her eyes to ask the silent question. Quinn takes a moment before nodding her head, and they maneuver themselves so that Santana can help her with the zipper.

They manage to get it up and over Quinn’s head, and Santana’s about to toss it to the ground when Quinn says, “Wait. Don’t wrinkle it.”

“You really know how to keep a girl in the mood, huh?” Santana quips, but she drapes it neatly over the bench that lays at the foot of the bed, then decides to say _fuck it_ and slips out of her own dress, too. 

Quinn hitches her breath slightly as Santana climbs back on top of her, her thumbs finding the sharp jut of Santana’s hip bones before she lifts her head and presses her mouth against the warm valley of skin between Santana’s breasts, swiping her tongue out for good measure.

It admittedly takes Santana by surprise, and the groan she lets out is completely wanton, which—holy shit, _is_ this Quinn’s first time with a girl? Because the way she’s biting down on the swell of Santana’s left breast just above the lace of her bra is so _good_ , and it’s just- it’s been so long since Santana’s been with someone like this, she’s admittedly not totally sure how long she’s going to last.

“Take it off of me,” she purrs against Quinn’s ear when she can feel the blonde’s fingers wander towards the clasp of Santana’s bra. 

Quinn curls the corner of her lips, then she does. Her mouth nearly falls agape when the cloth drops onto her stomach, and she plucks it off and out of the way before pulling Santana back on top of her. One of her hands cautiously slides up the length of their bodies, towards Santana’s chest, and she _squeezes,_ and Santana arches her back instinctively. 

“Oh, fuck,” she sighs, bringing a hand up to cover Quinn’s and biting down on her bottom lip. Then, because she is who she is, she adds, “See, Q? We both ended up benefitting from the boob job after all.” 

“Oh my God, Santana,” Quinn mutters through clenched teeth, but she’s letting Santana reach back to take off _her_ bra, and when it falls away, and the sight in front of Santana has her getting even wetter at an embarrassingly quick rate, they both shut up and remember why they’re here. 

*

Quinn comes, hard, with two of Santana’s fingers deep and slick inside of her, and the way she moans _yes, yeah, Santana_ like it’s some sacred chant as she plummets over the edge is the best thing Santana’s ever heard.

*

They lie next to each other, naked and sweaty and sated, until Santana speaks up, her voice scratchy. 

“Kiss on New Year’s, sex on Valentine’s Day,” she lists. She cranes her neck to look at Quinn. “You gonna propose to me on St. Patrick’s Day or something?” 

Quinn says nothing, just giggles and wordlessly swings a leg over Santana’s hip before she’s straddling her fully. She still feels wet from before, and it sets ablaze a heat in Santana’s lower abdomen. 

“Can I help you?” Santana teases, trying not to lick her lips at the sight of Quinn Fabray looking like she wants to fuck her into the next dimension. (That’s how she interprets it, anyway.)

Quinn interlaces their fingers together, then brings their conjoined hands above Santana’s head so that their arms are outstretched. She leans down for a long, wet kiss, then pulls away with a _plop_. She chuckles against Santana’s lips. “Don’t tell me you didn’t think I’d top you, too.” 

*

Maybe Santana comes so hard she sees stars, maybe she doesn’t. Don’t ask. 

*

It’s sometime around 10pm, and the reception’s going on for another few hours, so they have time to wipe the freshly-fucked looks of their faces before they rejoin the party.

They don’t, like, cuddle or anything. Because that’s not what this is. They chalk it up to making each other feel good and Quinn being at a place in her life where she feels comfortable openly exploring her sexuality, and it’s good enough for the both of them.

They help each other zip their dresses back up, and when Quinn shrugs her jacket back on and flips her hair over her shoulders, she gives Santana’s hand one last squeeze. “Thanks, S.”

Santana mentally cycles through her wide array of wise cracks before instead settling on, “Thank _you_.” Because she needed this, too. 

After a few more minutes of make-up touch ups, they take the elevator down back to the ballroom. There’s still a decent number of guests dancing and eating and drinking, and Quinn and Santana casually take to opposite sides of the room. 

“Hey,” Santana greets Tina near the bar, and Tina beams at her.

“Hey,” she says. “Where’d you go?”

“Quinn was craving a McFlurry, so we stopped by that McDonald’s a couple blocks down. Weird, I know, but she hated the cake.”

Tina laughs, shaking her head. “You two are something else.”

Santana just returns the laugh. _You have no idea._

*

They’re on a plane back to San Francisco the following morning, leaving just as quickly as they came. 

“Worth the trip back?” Quinn asks mid-flight. Santana shuffles in her seat, and her hearing is impeded from the air pressure, but the words float towards her loud and clear. She shuts her window shade, because being so high up can feel so scary, then she turns to Quinn with a nod of her head. 

“Totally worth it.”

*

When their respective rides come to pick them up from the airport, they part with nothing more than a hug. Santana tells Quinn not to study too hard, Quinn makes no promises, and that’s it. Business as usual. 

Santana finds herself relieved to be back, because Lima will always be Lima and that will always mean something to her, but as she peers out at the mountains through the car window and feels the warm air seep into her skin, for the first time in a long time, she feels like she truly belongs somewhere.

So much so that she spends the next few weeks looking for any marketing internships that can keep her in the Bay Area over the summer. She’ll get to spruce up her resume, and in terms of having to find somewhere to sublease, her parents will help her pay for anything career-related, so. It works out.

But then all of a sudden, it’s been _weeks_ since she’s sent out applications and hasn’t heard back from _anywhere,_ and when she FaceTimes Quinn one night on her walk from the library to her dorm, Quinn laughs at her pout. 

“Will you relax?” she teases, and Santana knows she’s wound up bad if Quinn Fabray of all people is telling her that. She huffs, tucking her chin into her scarf. “San, c’mon. _Whiny ten-year-old_ has never been your best look.” 

Santana lets her eyes trail to anywhere but her phone screen. “...what _is_ my best look, then?” 

“Stop that. It’s only March, ok? You have time.” Quinn peers off-screen to highlight something in one of her notebooks. 

“Speaking of, when am I gonna see your sweet ass again? It’s been a minute.” 

Quinn gazes up at her, smiling teasingly. “Why, do you miss me?” 

“No.” 

“Didn’t think so,” Quinn just says, undeterred, because both she and Santana know that’s a crock of bullshit. “But, if you must know, my mom’s actually shipping my car over next week. I could drive up sometime after Spring Break?” 

“Ooh, she’s making her way to East Bay,” Santana says, amusingly. “Yeah, that’s cool. I’ll be around once we get back from Tahoe.”

“Ok. I’ll text you, then.” Quinn shuffles papers around before running a hand through the length of her hair. “Sorry, I’m kinda swamped with finals stuff right now, but I’ll talk to you later?”

“Sure,” Santana nods. She almost says that she doesn’t mind just staying on the line, not talking, but...you know. Creepy, and a little too couple-y like for her liking. “Good luck, Q.”

“Thanks.” Quinn shoots her a grateful smile, and she disconnects the call right after.

Quinn spends the next couple weeks burrowed away studying in either her room or the library, and Santana picks up a second job at the school bookstore to help pay for her Tahoe trip, so their conversations become consistently sparse. But their relationship has never hinged on constant contact and having to check up on each other, so Santana pays it no mind. 

The last weekend of March, she’s driving up to Tahoe with Kendall, the girls they’re living with next year, and a couple other friends from their floor. 

They get to the cabin they rented out for four nights and spend more time drinking than they do actually going up the mountain and skiing. Santana and some of the other girls walk over to the Northstar Village, sipping on Bailey’s-spiked hot chocolate and mingling with other college students, and Santana even hooks up with a girl from UC Davis in one of the lodge’s bathroom stalls. It’s tiny and crammed, but steamy and quick, and after, when Santana adjusts the beanie on her head and reapplies her chapstick, she does so smugly—because, yup, she’s still got it.

Phone service is pretty weak near the mountain, but when Santana gets a few bars, she opens up Instagram and scrolls through pictures that Quinn posts of her stay in San Francisco with her friends. Santana can’t remember which, but one of their dads is absolutely loaded so he booked a bunch of them a hotel room in Union Square for the week. 

Quinn looks good; smiles that reach her eyes, hair perfectly windswept, and even the outfits that normally make her look like the personification of a Pottery Barn store hug her in all the right places. Santana’s impressed. (In another world, she might’ve used the word _smitten._ But in _this_ world, that ain’t happening, so leave her alone.)

She’s never been good at skiing—her parents would drive the family up to Snow Trails a few times a year when she was a kid, but that’s the extent of her experience—so when she and her friends get back to campus, her muscles are sore in a way they haven’t been since her Cheerios days.

She’s waiting for a laundry machine to free up in the basement of her dorm when her phone pings with an email from a start-up company in San Mateo. They target a lot of UC Berkeley students for their internship positions, and they want to schedule a phone interview with her sometime next week.

Santana thumbs through the email on her phone and mutters a victorious, “fuck yeah,” under her breath, because this company is no Google or Facebook, but still, it’s something that’ll help her get her foot in the door somewhere. 

“I _told_ you it’d come,” Quinn boasts, smug but proud, when Santana calls her days later to tell her about it. “That’s great, San.” They talk for a few minutes before Santana has to scurry off to her lecture, and Quinn hangs up with a promise to treat her to lunch when she drives up over the weekend.

*

They’re at a sweetgreen Saturday afternoon and Quinn forks heartily through a cobb salad when she advises,

“Just be yourself. Or maybe, like, a more charming, likable version of yourself.”

“Girl, are you for real? Do I have to pull a _When Harry Met Sally_ right now just to remind you how charming and likable you found me in that hotel room?”

Quinn laughs and lifts her shoulder in a shrug, her way of resigning. Santana almost misses when she’d bite back with something unnecessarily cruel, but she also appreciates this character development. It works in her favor. 

Quinn sits back in her seat and adjusts the scarf that sits cordially around her neck, and Santana lets her eyes follow the movement. They widen immediately when...when she sees—

“Holy hot hell, is that a _hickey,_ Fabray?”

Ever so bashful, Quinn lowers her gaze to her plate, her throat clearing as a soft hue of red starts to color her cheeks. She pauses for a moment. “Perhaps.”

“Oh my _God,”_ Santana laughs loudly, earning the attention of patrons at the surrounding tables of the restaurant. “This is the best thing ever. You _never_ let anyone mark you up! Please, _please,_ enlighten me on this sequence of events.”

“You’re so annoying,” Quinn mutters, lifting up her napkin and wiping primly at the sides of her mouth. “We all used our fakes in the city one night over Spring Break and got into this bar. I met this guy there, and…”

“A one night stand,” Santana breathes out, somewhat in awe. She brings a hand up to her chest. “I am so proud of you.”

 _“Stop.”_ Quinn tries to keep the growing smile off her face, folding her arms over her chest. “It wasn’t...it wasn’t even _good.”_ Upon Santana opening her mouth, she raises a pointed finger. “Say nothing. But, yeah. He was...everything I would’ve wanted in high school: clean-cut, tall, polite. I don’t know, though. Just didn’t do it for me.”

Santana just nods her head, and honestly Quinn should be thankful because there are _so_ many things swirling in her mind that she could say right now, but instead, she keeps her mouth shut. “Noted,” is all she says, then the waiter comes by to refill their waters.

*

It’s not until that night, when they’re wrapped up in their respective blankets and Quinn’s fast asleep, that Santana realizes the annoying, tugging sensation that’s been fluttering in and around her gut since lunch, is jealousy.

Because, yeah, Quinn said she didn’t even enjoy herself, but still _._ The thought of some dude—of someone that’s not _her_ —with their hands and lips all over Quinn’s body is unsettling, to say the least.

But—hold on. Back the hell up. The only thing _more_ unsettling is the fact she feels this way in the first place. Like, Jesus. Jealous? Over Quinn? It’s ridiculous, is what it is. The only ever time she felt this type of jealousy over another person was…

It freaks Santana the fuck out, to say the least. She leaves more space than usual between them that night, and she sleeps horribly.

*

She’s distant the next day, and Quinn can tell. 

“Ok, what is up with you?” she asks as they stroll through the snack aisle at Whole Foods, plucking a pack of mango slices off the shelf and plopping it into the basket Santana’s carrying. “You’re actually...peacefully quiet today, and it’s weird.”

 _“You’re_ weird,” Santana murmurs, because she’s too tired to think of anything else, and Quinn laughs humorlessly. 

“Your comebacks suck, too.”

“Look, nothing is up,” Santana lies, making her way towards the almond butter Kendall asked her to pick up. “Just...midterms and stuff.” It’s easier than saying _I don’t know what the hell it means that the idea of you with someone who isn’t me cost me hours of sleep last night._ So she locks the excuse in as her final answer.

“Yeah, guess that makes sense,” Quinn offers easily. “I’ll come on a better weekend next time."

Santana can’t tell if it’s supposed to come off as accusatory or not, but nonetheless, it does, so she starts, _“Q-”_

“Sorry, sorry,” Quinn says, genuinely, in her rarely-utilized surrendering tone—the one that says she’s not in the mood to argue. She grabs the pretzel sticks that Kendall asked for, too, and adds them to the basket. “Just not used to seeing the stress get to you. Reminds me you’re actually human.”

“Funny,” Santana half-smiles, half-grimaces, and the mood lightens when Quinn just laughs at her. 

They’re back at Santana’s dorm an hour later, and Quinn starts packing her bag to drive down to Palo Alto. 

“Good luck with the interview, ok?” she sighs, folding her cardigans and placing them in her overnight bag. “If you make good money this summer, maybe you can treat us to Nobu in the fall. You know I’ve been wanting to try it there.”

“Right, because _that’s_ what I’d do with my paychecks,” Santana says from where she’s unhelpfully laying on top of Quinn’s pajamas on her bed. “Blow it all on some Japanese restaurant for you.”

“Sounds reasonable to me,” Quinn shrugs, and she pulls her t-shirt out from underneath Santana’s butt. “But actually, though. You’ll kill it.”

“Complimenting me has always looked good on you, you know,” Santana smirks, and when Quinn shoots her a look, she softens it down to a smile and hands Quinn her shorts, also from underneath her butt. “Thank you.” 

She’s watching Quinn’s car drive off shortly after, and the rest of her day is spent in the library, because she wasn’t _totally_ lying about being stressed for midterms. Her grades have actually been more than impressive this semester, but microeconomics will always be a pain in the ass.

Moments like these, when she’s getting hit from every corner with over-complicated assignments for uninspiring business classes, Santana wonders if she would’ve been better off following Rachel and Kurt’s paths and trying her best to make it in New York. She misses singing, and she misses performing, and sometimes, maybe, she wonders if she’s on the wrong side of the country, pursuing all the wrong things.

Her phone buzzes on the table with a text from Quinn.

_Just got back to my dorm. You’ll kick midterms in the butt, smarty pants._

Seconds later, another.

_And re: the interview, don’t forget to smile. It helps, even if it’s just over the phone._

Santana smirks down at the screen like a grade-A idiot, and she quickly types away a thankful response before hiding her phone under one of her open textbooks and refocusing on the shared Google Doc someone in her class started as a study guide.

At the end of the week, after she aces the interview and manages _at least_ a B+ in both of her midterms, she sighs, content and proud.

No regrets, about anything.

*

Her RA hosts weekly movie nights for her floor in the common room—and, listen, they’re not _totally_ uncool, ok?—so sometimes Santana goes. Tonight, they’re watching _John Tucker Must Die,_ and Quinn FaceTimes her right before that scene in the movie when John and Kate kiss outside her house. 

“‘Sup, Luce Caboose?” she greets once she’s sauntered back into her room, dropping onto her bed.

“Hi,” Quinn says, ignoring the nickname. She tousles her hair absentmindedly then rests her chin atop the free hand that’s not holding up her phone. “So my mom just called me.”

 _That’s_ _why I’m missing out on precious time I could be spending watching the movie and staring at Sophia Bush?_ Santana wants to retort, but Quinn looks somewhat preoccupied, and this _has_ to be about something, so she just nods her head. 

“I guess this summer was supposed to be some big anniversary year for her and my dad, and they had booked flights and hotels all across Europe for a two-month trip. He obviously won’t be attending anymore, so my mom called my sister and me and asked if we’d want to go.”

“Did you call just to gloat about finally getting to fulfill some elaborate, lifelong Parisian fantasy you wrote down in your diary as a little girl? Because damn-”

“I’m not _gloating,_ Santana, because I don’t know what to do,” Quinn says, her voice slightly raising and more-than-slightly clipping. Santana stays quiet, because in all honesty, she’s too tired to go back-and-forth with an annoyed Quinn right now. And, yeah. Maybe she can see how she comes off as irritating, sometimes. “I mean, you know how I get whenever I’m with my mom. And I actually...I _like_ who I am out when I’m out here.” Her voice is quieter now, with a thoughtful edge to it. 

“And you don’t know if you can spend that much time with her without going back to who you were before,” Santana completes for her, and Quinn just raises her eyebrows in silent affirmation. “Don’t go then.”

Quinn’s shoulders pull back. “What? You think? Pass up a free summer trip to Europe?”

Santana almost laughs at the sudden shift in demeanor. “No, I just wanted you to hear how ridiculous the words sound when you say them out loud,” she says. At that, Quinn rolls her eyes. “You gotta give yourself more credit, Q,” Santana continues. “Your growth this year isn’t a fluke, and a two-month trip won’t change that.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Quinn mumbles.

“I know I am,” Santana says, smugly. “Can you say those words again, though, clearer and louder this time?”

Quinn doesn’t, but when they end the call minutes later, she seems grateful nonetheless.

They see each other two more times before the semester ends—once in Berkeley and once in Palo Alto—and Santana goes both weekends without any more emotional crises regarding her feelings for the other girl. And, seriously, _thank_ _fuck_ for that. She even helps Quinn get the phone number of the cute guy who works at the local poké shop near Stanford. His name is Connor, he’s from Oahu, and he’s a sophomore studying computer science. 

“Quinn, this is amazing, he could be the first guy you date that doesn’t look or act like a man-child.”

“Don’t make me kick you out of the car.” 

*

Santana gets an internship offer the second week of May, and since San Mateo is only half an hour north of Palo Alto, she agrees to sublease Quinn’s off-campus apartment for the summer. She wraps up the semester in a couple weeks but Quinn’s in school until mid-June, so they set a date for when Santana comes back from visiting her parents in Lima to move stuff in together. 

Finals go without a hitch (because contrary to popular belief, Santana has always cared about her grades and actually _likes_ school), and the rest of the week is spent packing up her dorm room, moving her things into storage, and drinking with Kendall and their friends before everyone is scattered across the country for the summer.

They all sit around her and Kendall’s room sipping on wine from paper cups, and Santana’s heart feels light because these are the first friendships she’s made on her own that weren’t initially fueled by a hunger for power or popularity.

She goes back to Lima for two weeks, where she visits McKinley and browses online with her parents for apartment furniture for next year. It’s not until her mom hugs her tight and murmurs how proud she is that Santana realizes how much she misses them, sometimes. 

The second week of June, her plane touches down in San Jose, and Quinn picks her up from the airport.

They spend the day dividing Quinn’s things into what she wants in the new place, what she wants to leave in storage, and what she’s taking home with her. When they’re not sorting identical sundresses into different piles, Santana moves _her_ things into what’s going to be Quinn’s room next year. 

“Thought you might want this, just in case it gets chilly,” Quinn says as they stand in the middle of the half-empty room, sticky with sweat from moving all day in their tank tops and athletic shorts. When Santana spins around from fitting the sheets onto the bed, Quinn’s holding up the knit blanket they bought over Thanksgiving break. 

Santana laughs, taking it swiftly. “I was so annoyed with you before we bought this, you know.” 

“Oh, I know,” Quinn laughs, too. “I thought you were gonna throw me off the bed that morning.”

“Your dorm’s air conditioning worked a little too well,” Santana says pointedly, then she brings the blanket to her nose before tossing it onto the bed. “Thanks, Q.”

“Was the least I could do,” Quinn shrugs, padding back over to the moving boxes that block the door. 

“I’m not just talking about the blanket,” Santana sighs. “This whole year, everything. Couldn’t have done it without you, or whatever the hell people say.”

Quinn’s lips quirk into a sort of smile, and she uses the back of her hand to push away strands of hair matted to her forehead. She walks back over to Santana. “Can you say that again, clearer and louder this time?”

Santana narrows her eyes, fighting an entertained smile. “Doubtful.”

“Thought so.” Quinn folds her arms over her chest, then her tone goes from teasing to genuine. “I couldn’t have survived this year without you either. So, thank you, too.”

Santana’s features soften as she darts her eyes to the floor. She and Quinn just stand there in front of each other silently, because they’ve never really known how to handle sweet moments between them and they’re both too grossly sweaty to hug. So, “cool,” she just murmurs, lamely.

Quinn smirks, rolling her eyes and grabbing her car keys off the windowsill. “Yeah,” she says. “Now help me get the bedside table from the car.”

*

They fall asleep that night with all the blankets in a lazy pile on the ground, the windows cracked open, and a cheap, oscillating fan quietly blowing air at them because it’s nearly summer and the landlord isn’t coming to fix the air conditioning until tomorrow.

Quinn’s asleep first (she always is). She takes up too much space on the bed (she always does), and her bottom lip twitches in thought every so often. 

Sometimes, Santana wonders what she dreams about. Wonders what it’d be like to take the strands of hair that drape across Quinn’s cheek and tuck them behind her ear, to trace the contours of Quinn’s cheekbone with her thumb, to kiss the crown of her hair, to _hold_ her. 

She wonders what it means that she wonders all those things.

But _Quinn and Santana_ were never meant to be _QuinnandSantana,_ and Quinn leaves for the next three months tomorrow, and she might be the one person Santana just can’t risk losing. So Santana halts the thoughts in their tracks, and she makes a mental note to buy melatonin the next time she’s at the store. 

Goddamn Quinn. Never leaves her alone, even when she sleeps.

*

“So, Norah and Addison should be all moved in by Thursday, I have some furniture scheduled to be delivered by the end of the week so just keep an eye out for that, if you bring a girl home—and I cannot stress this enough— _please_ wash the sheets. Oh, and if the landlord causes any issues-”

 _“Quinn,”_ Santana interjects impatiently, grunting as she hauls one of the many, _heavy_ luggages out of the trunk of the car. _“Chill_. Aren’t you the one who always tells me I’ll be fine?” 

Quinn takes a long breath as she hoists one of her carry-on bags onto her shoulder. “Yeah,” she says, after a beat. “Sorry. You’re right, you’ll be fine.”

“Mhmm,” Santana hums, the edges of her demeanor softening as she shuts the trunk door closed and is left standing eye-to-eye with the blonde in front of her. “Well. I guess you’re out of here,” she says. She laughs lightly as she adds, “Don’t, like, come back with an accent or something.”

Quinn seems to relax for the first time all morning, and she’s smiling, almost sweetly, as she shakes her head. “Is that your roundabout way of saying _bye Quinn, be safe, I’ll miss you?”_

“No,” Santana says, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her jacket. She opens her mouth to rattle off a retort, then settles for sighing instead and stepping forward to envelop Quinn in a hug. “Bye, Q. Be safe, I’ll miss you.”

She can feel Quinn grinning against her shoulder, and when they pull away, there’s this...this _look_ on Quinn’s face—like she wants to say something but she’s still trying to figure out how to form the words correctly—then all of a sudden one of the security guards is warning them to move the car before he issues out a ticket.

“Asshole,” Santana mutters under her breath as she shoots him a thin look. When she turns back to Quinn, “You good with all your bags?”

“Yeah,” Quinn nods. “Bye, Santana. I’ll miss you, too.” Her hands are too full for them to really do anything else, so she just tips her chin in one last farewell before making her way inside the airport. 

Santana doesn’t have time to linger for too long; she all but shoos the security guard away when he starts blowing his whistle again before she’s getting into the car and starting the engine. 

She merges back into traffic, and just like when she first touched down in California last August, she doesn’t look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll say sorry now for how long the upcoming chapters may take to be published LOL. But they are on their way!


End file.
